


Once Upon A Time (in Chaillot)

by Leni



Category: Black Jewels - Anne Bishop
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-04
Updated: 2011-09-16
Packaged: 2017-10-22 05:00:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/234072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leni/pseuds/Leni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snapshots set during Daemon's time in Chaillot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dance Up A Storm

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Raya, without whom I'd have never discovered this series. HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

_"…and he plays the piano with Wilhemina, and he reads to us, and he's not like lots of grown-ups who think our games are silly." - Jaenelle to Saetan, Daughter of the Blood by Anne Bishop._

 

\---

 

Jaenelle applauded when the song was finished. Daemon took a small bow of acknowledgment, prompting Wilhemina to do the same. In truth, this was one piece the older girl could play without tangling her own fingers on the piano keys.

"Your duets are getting better," Jaenelle said happily, coming to stand between them. She took Wilhemina's right hand and his left one, observing them with something that changed from affection to mild curiosity. "So I'm not the only who doesn't wear her Jewels in public," she noted.

Self-consciously, Wilhemina tried to fist her hand, hide the ring that held her Purple Dusk. The poor girl obviously didn't want to remind her sister that she had no Jewels to wear.

Daemon instead allowed himself to caress Jaenelle's bare knuckles. "Wilhemina only does what we're not allowed to," he told his soon-to-be Queen, remembering the Red and Black contained in his trunks, little more than accessories since Dorothea had forbidden their use.

Sapphire eyes fixed on his black tinted nails. "But it doesn't make a different. Does it, Prince?" Those eyes followed from his nails to his wrist, to the ruby cufflinks that hid a chip of the Red. Her little fingers threaded through his. "We are what we are."

He felt a tight wave of anxiety come from his right. Wilhemina. Who loved her little sister but became uneasy when Jaenelle spoke in that voice beyond her years. He ignored her. "Yes, Lady," was his humble response; he brought her hand to his lips for a soft kiss. A mere Warlord Prince bowing to Witch's wisdom. Oh, it was moments like this when he yearned to be five years in the future, to be able to serve her formally at last.

Jaenelle nodded and, having also felt Wilhemina's agitation and less inclined to dismiss it, she smiled brightly and dissipated the taut atmosphere. "It's been such a great day. Play something else?" she entreated, loosening their hands and moving into a complicated pirouette.

Daemon instantly recognized it as a dance step, but none he'd seen in his seventeen centuries through Terreille Territories. "Wilhemina has been practicing a lovely little tune," he answered. In truth, Graff had insisted that the girl learned several songs to entertain at the children's party that would take place during the Winsol festivities. But this one song, Daemon knew that she liked. When the girl beside him didn't react, he touched her shoulder warmly. "Lady Benedict?"

Blue-gray eyes blinked at him.

He smiled and nodded towards the fair-headed child who continued through the complicated steps, steps that followed a tune only she seemed to be able to hear. "It seems Jaenelle is ahead of us," he laughed. "Lady Angelline," he called to her. As he'd supposed, Wilhemina didn't protest the name. So the sisters had discussed the matter and the older one had chosen to follow Robert's directions.

Jaenelle stopped her nameless dance.

Daemon felt his lips curve up into an indulgent smile. "Please wait for us?"

She tilted her head, frozen mid-movement with her hands held daintily above her head, fingers positioned in an exact shape he still couldn't identify. "But I am," she said, a small frown crossing her features. " _You_ are supposed to follow me."

The obvious disregard for convention roused Wilhemina. "But it's music which guides the dance."

The frown puckered a little more. "Why?"

Wilhemina didn't have an answer, and to tell the truth neither did Daemon. It was those intriguing questions, so innocent at first glance but so revealing as to her inner self, which proved to him she was the one he'd been looking for.

In the silence, Jaenelle looked at the two of them, finally heaving a small resigned sigh. Daemon wanted to take it back, let her dance to her heart's whim and follow her as best as possible. But what was done, was done. So he looked for the proper spreadsheet and, after nudging Wilhemina into action, music filled the room.

He watched from the corner of his eye as Jaenelle tried to continue with her dance, but the smooth movements didn't fit with the piece. The music was meant for cold dance floors and frivolous conversation, where her body tried to speak of the sea and flowers in mid-bloom. Finally her motions staggered and stopped, and she came back to stand next to the piano, looking content with just hearing their playing.

Daemon smiled for her, and he vowed to himself that even if he had to travel through Terreille all over again, he'd find the tune that fit her dance.

 

The End  
23/11/08


	2. The Art of Evasion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Why does she ask so damn many uncomfortable questions?" - Daemon on Jaenelle, Daughter of the Blood by Anne Bishop._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"Why does she ask so damn many uncomfortable questions?" - Daemon on Jaenelle, Daughter of the Blood by Anne Bishop._

He will admit to taking advantage of snowy mornings every chance he's got. Alexandra is ridiculously easy to convince that she stay at home; while her eyes are hooded with pleasure when they meet at the breakfast table, a simple suggestion is enough to send her back to bed for much needed rest. Leland is… more complicated. His bedroom skills are not welcome, but his taste is apparently necessary during her shopping stints. Still, a simple reference to how haggard Philip is looking these days, how their Steward doesn't seem to be getting enough sleep, is usually enough to be left in peace.

Snowy mornings find everyone cuddling in front of a fire, and no one will pay attention as he and a smaller shape slip away from the house and into the white fields. Even if it's completely improper, the few servants who might notice them won't say a word; Jaenelle is more precious to them than their job. Disregarded by the noble Blood in the household, but treasured by all who care to look under the surface. This goldhaired child is their most prized secret, and deserves to be protected from the evil that permeates Chaillot. Daemon is aware that his protectiveness towards her and the fact that he's got the strength to back up such claim, hasn't gone unnoticed by the servants as it has by her own family. They don't need a Black Jeweled Warlord Prince to be their hero, Jaenelle already plays that role.

But maybe - he hears the whispers - he will be hers.

For the first time that week, Daemon lets himself relax, immensely glad that Jaenelle has chosen him over the Priest and her Craft lessons for one morning. It's as if she _knew_.

She probably did.

"Why has Leland stopped playing with you?"

Just as she knows to ask the question that will most discomfit him.

He forces himself to keep working the spell. Today she's teaching him to work outside what he knows to be real. His handful of snow turns from red to yellow as he grasps for an answer. "She lost her interest in cards," he finally says.

Thank the Darkness, Jaenelle seems to find that answer satisfying. In fact, she turns to look at him with something of a reproachful expression. "Maybe you should have let her win some rounds."

The snow he'd cupped in his hand for the last half hour finally melts and runs between his fingers back to the ground. "I _knew_ that's what you've been doing," he laughs, shaking his head at the thought that a little girl would be mindful of his hurt feelings over a game of cradle.

She turns twinkling blue eyes towards him. "Are you mad, Daemon?"

As long as she calls him by name, never. "Of course," he says, knowing she'll read right through him.

Jaenelle giggles, reaching out to smooth the mock glower. He almost forgets it's a façade, this innocent little girl - until her eyes meet his and she becomes Witch in all her glory. It is Witch who holds his gaze, who is amused by him, even as childish fingers tap his nose playfully.

He closes his eyes blissfully, her touch welcome like long-forgotten blessings.

"Poor Warlord Prince." Another giggle. "Kiss kiss?"

 

The End  
23/11/08


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"He hesitated a moment, then took her in his arms. He needed to hold her, feel her warmth against him, needed reassurance that the sacrifice was worth it." - Daemon, after finding out that Lucivar had been sent to the salt mines. Daughter of the Blood by Anne Bishop._

Daemon woke up with a strangled scream caught in his throat. It'd been two weeks since Kartane delivered the news, but his mind insisted to create scenario upon scenario - each one worse than the last - about Lucivar's fate.

Now he sat ramrod straight on his bed, too aware that no tears could be found on his face. And yet he rubbed his arms harshly, trying to fend off the cold that'd gathered during his nightmare. If he looked around, Daemon knew that he'd find the walls glazed with thin ice.

"Prince."

His eyes flared open, and he automatically pulled the sheets to cover his nudity. The figure standing between him and the door didn't seem to notice. Dressed in her usual nightshirt, she advanced, and as she did, Daemon could hear the slow hiss of the ice as it cracked and dropped to the floor. He had known that she was the stronger one, that her power ran deeper than anything he or the Priest could dream of. But to feel the cold that emanated from her….

"You haven't called me in a long time."

…it was glorious.

That sepulchral voice had become something he reveled in. It was a hint of what was to come, a taste of raw Darkness that made him wish for the night she'd turn seventeen and finally be allowed to have her own Court. "It's nothing that should worry you, Lady," he told her.

Instead of being placated, Jaenelle stopped and held her head high. Every piece of furniture shook in a sudden - and effective - show of feminine temper. Except the bed, Daemon noticed distractedly as Witch's eyes pinned him. "I'll be the one to decide that," she stated, looking at him as if, irony of ironies, he were the child.

Daemon fought the urge to bow in apology. "I didn't mean to bother you," he rephrased. He arranged the sheet tighter around his hips, opened his arms in obvious welcome. "But I'm glad you came."

The air in his bedroom thawed as her posture relaxed and her eyes grew sleepy. "I always wanted to come," Jaenelle said as she lifted herself onto the bed, accepting the embrace. "Always."

He kept his grasp light, still too afraid of his own reaction to her nearness. But he did lower his face into her hair, breathing in the smell of the flower-scented soap Leland insisted she use. A little girl. That's what she was to them. A little girl and nothing more, that's what she lowered herself to, to please her family.

"It's okay," she said soothingly, putting one hand to his shoulder. A small stroking motion and he realized that the temperature had lowered again. Daemon checked himself and tried to focus on the small body he was holding. "I'm glad I can answer the call now."

He nodded, his chin hitting the top of her head reassuringly. There was no resentment in his heart. Not against her. Never against her. All those times he'd clamored for Witch and been left unanswered, Jaenelle had been bound by her promise not to wander in Terreille.

Daemon had wanted to snap Lucivar's neck once he'd understood what that promise had implied. He'd also wanted to fall to his knees and thank his brother for his foresight. Because Jaenelle, sweet child that she was, would have fallen prey to one of Dorothea's traps - and how would he have lived without knowing her?

He wouldn't, and now he didn't need to. He put a hand on her back, almost engulfing it from shoulder to shoulder, and pulled her just a little bit closer, just enough to drive away the remnants of his nightmare.

"He's still alive." Her whisper broke the silence. "The Ebon-Gray still shines in Terreille."

Relieved, he dropped back against the headboard, bringing her along. The dream had been too real. Dorothea's smirk over his brother's mutilated body, almost palpable. "The last time we saw each other, we talked about you." He willfully suppressed the memories of what had happened to Cornelia and her Court after he and Lucivar had been separated. The rage, the blood, the destruction - Jaenelle may be able to sense them under his first barrier; but there was no reason to bring them further. "He'd already met you," he realized now. "Sweet Darkness, I should strangle him for not telling me that." But he was smiling as he said the words, glad that his brother had the chance to meet their Queen, to serve her by protecting her.

"He kept calling me Cat," she shared suddenly.

Daemon blinked at the non-sequitor, but he was already answering: "Sounds like him."

She gave a little huff that tickled dangerously against his neck. Subtly, he shifted his hold on her, placing a safer distance between them. "I don't think I deserved it," she complained, sounding for all the world like the injured party.

A chuckle was condemned to death in the spot, afraid it'd send her away in a sulk. Daemon wondered when she'd learned to shift the mood so efficiently; it still lacked finesse, true, but a few years from now she would easily control her males and their outbursts. Daemon almost purred at the vision; but instead he refocused on their little discussion. "Cat, huh?" Jaenelle was a free spirit, ready to get into trouble at the littlest chance and drag him into it. He could imagine a younger version of her, less troubled by the secret of her witchblood alcove… He'd never been more jealous of Lucivar than at that moment, when he realized he'd never meet that child. " _I_ think it fits perfectly," he responded, lightening his voice from a sad choke.

Jaenelle lifted her head, glaring at him with a expression that was supposed to be annoyed but instead endeared her to him even more. "You will not call me that, will you?"

He pretended to think about it. "You'll keep calling me 'Prince' when we're by ourselves?" 'Except if you've turned into a young Queen addressing a Court male?' he wanted to add. Because he'd learned to recognize the difference, and while a Warlord Prince could do nothing but comply when Witch addressed him by his title, it niggled Daemon every time Jaenelle used it in the middle of their games.

"But it's your title!" she whined as expected. But she didn't face him anymore, and instead had snuggled between his chest and arm.

Daemon closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Thank the Darkness it wasn't her body he hungered for. Not yet. Not for years to come. "Maybe 'kitten'…."

A rude noise came from his side.

Daemon laughed, but just as fast his expression - now outside her line of vision - grew pensive. No. She was Jaenelle. And Jaenelle was Witch. She was Queen and Dreams and Love, and none of those titles required a nickname. Only five years more, and unless she flat-out refused him, he'd become an official member of her Court. Five short years where he'd have to fight for the privilege of wearing the Consort ring, and _if_ that happened…. Daemon wanted to tilt her head towards him, wanted to brush her thoughts and see if she had any idea - any at all - of what her decision would be.

But instead he found a dozing child happily cuddled at his side, sleep rapidly reclaiming her. Her face was still hidden against his arm, so he settled for caressing her cheeks before leaving the bed and hastily pulling on some clothes.

Jaenelle didn't protest as he set his arms around her body, neither did she make a sound as he carried her stealthily back to the nursery wing.

"Daemon…," she called his name after he'd tugged the covers to her chin. Her blue eyes were misty with sleep, but she valiantly kept them open. "You still haven't answered me."

He smiled, bending down to put his thumb and forefinger over her eyebrows. "Rest easy, dear girl." She obediently closed her eyes as he dragged his fingers down her eyelids. "I'd rather let my foolish brother deal with your anger."

"But I'm not angry," she disagreed, curling into herself and yawning against her pillow.

"Of course you aren't," he said, mostly to himself. "That is exactly why we love you." And with a last look at her, Daemon left the room and resignedly returned to the solitude of his.

 

The End  
23/11/08


End file.
